


Meaner Than My Demons, Bigger Than These Bones

by llyrical



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Chara, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, Domestic, Flavortext Chara, Gen, Mental Instability, Post-Pacifist Route, Spoilers - No Mercy Route, Spoilers - Pacifist Route, chara got a physical form after the pacifist ending, except asriel because i'm awful, floweypot au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyrical/pseuds/llyrical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to try, you tell yourself. For Asriel. </p><p>Everything is always for Asriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meaner Than My Demons, Bigger Than These Bones

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of thoughts about post-pacifist Chara and Flowey interactions and so I had to write this. I also wanted to write about post-pacifist Chara and Sans interactions, so there's some of that, as well. 
> 
> This is set in an AU where Chara gets a physical form at the end of the pacifist route. You can use your imagination as to how that happened. It's vaguely explained, but really it was a lot of 'I'm the author and I do what I want.'
> 
> Content warnings for depression/anxiety, mental instability, referenced suicide attempt, mentions of the Bad Times route and subsequent resets, and bullying.

You hadn’t been all for Frisk’s plan to venture back Underground to the Ruins, but hey, was it really your place to stop them? 

Well, maybe you’d tried to intervene a _little bit_ when you found out their true motivation for the trip. A “rescue mission,” as they called it. To get- that thing. 

You can’t think of it as Asriel, because it’s not. That _weed_ does not have Asriel’s SOUL, Asriel’s laugh, Asriel’s personality. It’s not Asriel, and yet it is. 

You’d held hope that maybe Toriel would forbid it, maybe Sans would step up and get rid of it, maybe Papyrus would annoy it until it threw its flowerpot off the table. 

But none of those things happen, and Flowey is easily ingrained as part of your strange little “family.” 

\-----

Things on the surface world aren’t as great as you’d hoped they’d improved to be, and you maybe (probably) cling to Frisk a lot more than you’d readily admit.

And you- you shouldn’t, really. You’re older, a few years physically and a few hundred mentally. But you somehow manage to rationalize it in your head, about how Frisk has dealt with humans more recently than you have, so they’re better versed. After all, you’ve been a non-corporeal SOUL for a few centuries and the last four years of your actual life had been spent amongst monsters. 

You don’t understand how Frisk can do it. How they can so easily be the ambassador for the monsters at such a young age, how they can so easily accept you as you are despite the things you made them do through a blur of resets. 

You ask, sometimes, with fists clutched at your sides because you can’t clutch a knife - you’re not allowed near sharp objects nowadays - and demand to know why Frisk is still so nice to you. And each time, they take your hand like you’re the child, not them, and they pat it and smile and tell you that you’re special. 

(That shakes memories, memories of when you were still seeing the world through Frisk’s eyes and they’d been struggling against Asriel and he’d broken down and cried, _”You’re special, Chara.”_ He’d been talking to Frisk then, still mistaking them for you, but you hold a hope in the back of your mind that maybe he just _knew_ you were in there somewhere.)

It’s hard to accept that answer, even though it’s practically all you hear nowadays. You’re surrounded by the people who you’d used Frisk’s hands to kill over and over again and each day they try to reassure you of your worth. 

(Toriel is by far the worst, though Asgore is a close second. You’d broken down and cried to them, just once, and apologized for all you’d done to hurt them and the family that you hadn’t ever really been a part of in the first place, and they hadn’t wanted to hear it. They informed you that you were still their child, would _always_ be their child, and it made you feel sick.)

You force yourself through the days even as it gets harder and harder. You don’t understand the mechanics of how your SOUL threw together atoms and stardust and determination to build you a body, and frankly, you don’t want to know. But you do know that it obviously tried to make something as close to your actual body as possible, buttercup poisoning and all. 

You’re in constant pain, but after three months, it’s nothing to sweat over. It’s agony in your chest and your back just about every part of your body with muscles, but it’s constant and grounding and real. 

Sometimes Flowey teases you from his permanent position on the desk between your bed and Frisk’s as you clutch at your sides, hand fumbling around for your pill bottle. He cackles and jokes about how flowers always seem to be your downfall, don’t they, and you ignore him as you throw back a handful of pills whose name you can’t pronounce. 

It’s a harsh parallel to when you were a kid in the Underground and Asriel was the one who’d be making sure you took your medicine. How he’d get you water and write out a schedule and sit with you until you’d swallowed them all. 

But Flowey is not Asriel, you have to remind yourself. Again and again and again. 

Asriel is still somewhere Underground. Dust scattered in the wind.

\-----

But maybe some part of your heart holds belief that he’s somewhere in there, and maybe that’s why you haven’t dumped Flowey into the trash yet or picked his petals off one-by-one. 

You’re home alone one day when the rest of your housemates are off doing legal things, with Frisk as their ambassador. You’d turned down their invitation to join with the excuse that you had cramps, but really, you just weren’t feeling up to seeing humans today. 

After stumbling around the kitchen like a zombie until you managed to force yourself to down a bowl of cereal and a bottle of water, you return to your room with a book taken off the living room shelf. You think it’s Sans’, because it’s about quantum physics and you can’t imagine anyone else in the house reading something like that.

Flowey looks up at you as you come in. His neutral expression twists into something sinister. “All by your lonesome, aren’t you, Chara?” He laughs. You don’t blink. “Just like you’ve always been.” 

Before, that comment might have stung. But you’ve gotten so used to them that you can’t even bring yourself to roll your eyes. “Weak,” you mutter as you flop onto your bed, flipping on the lamp to have some more light. 

Flowey gasps in offense. “ _Well_ ,” he scoffs, “do you have something better?” 

You glance up from your book, raising an eyebrow at the flower. “You’re targetting the wrong areas of offense,” you tell him. 

He stares at you. 

When he doesn’t say anything, you continue, “... Asriel.” 

The flower’s face twists in anger. His voice distorts as he snarls, “Do _not_ call me that.” 

Boom. You hit _his_ area of offense.

“Sure thing, Asri,” you reply, feeling a smirk tugging at your lips. 

“That - don’t call me that! I’m not him! I’m not that weak idiot! He’s dead!” 

“Asriel is _not_ weak,” you snap. It leaves your mouth before you realizing what you’re saying. You feel your SOUL pounding against your ribcage. 

It started as a joke, but now you’re aching and longing for Asriel. There’s the smallest glimmer of hope inside you and you hate it. Hope never works out for you. Hope always leads to disappointment. 

Flowey’s expression morphs again, and he smirks. You mentally swear at yourself. 

“I bet you’re still holding onto some idea that he could come back, aren’t you?” Flowey asks as if reading your mind. “You think there’s still some way to save him.” 

You don’t say anything, but your hands clench so tightly on the book that you hear a page start to tear. 

“Well,” Flowey’s face turns innocent, “why don’t you reset and find out?” 

You throw the book. It misses by a foot, but Flowey is distracted enough by it that he doesn’t have time to say anything else as you run out of the room.

\-----

“You don’t have to walk me to school,” you mutter under your breath to Frisk like you do every morning. You know they don’t mind - the repeated comment or walking you to school - but it still makes you feel a little guilty; are you really still so blatantly fearful of humanity that a twelve year old feels like they need to walk you somewhere ten minutes from your house?

You would’ve preferred going to the same school as Frisk, but they’re still young enough to attend the monster-human co-ed school that Toriel had opened up. You’re not. You’re stuck in the first year of high school because you’re fourteen and - and it’s almost winter, shit, you’re almost _fifteen_. 

It hurts to think about how you’re getting older while Asriel never will, so you just don’t.

“I don’t mind,” Frisk replies, as they always do, before leaning in to hug you, like they always do. They’re too short to comfortably throw their arms around your neck and so instead they tightly embrace your waist, and after a moment of hesitation, you lightly drape your arms around their shoulders and awkwardly pat their head. 

“Have a good day, Chara,” they say, flashing you a smile before turning on their heel to head towards their own school, bookbag bouncing on their back. 

“You too,” you murmur, only once you’re sure they’re out of earshot.

The school building looms over you. You tug earbuds out of your pocket and slip them in, quickly turning on a calming playlist that Frisk made for you. It’s a mix of simple piano and dubstep remixes, and all of them manage to make you feel a bit better.

For the first time in a while, you’re filled with determination.

\-----

Determination doesn’t work out too well. Determination leads you to punch a senior boy in the face when he has the nerve to call you a freak. 

There’s a satisfying _crack_ when your knuckles make contact with his nose, and for a moment, it’s too much power. It’s like you’re back in the Underground with a knife gripped tightly in your - Frisk’s - hand, dust coating your - Frisk’s - clothes. 

But instead of scattering into dust, the boy clutches at his nose and stares at you in fear as a teacher angrily approaches the two of you, shouting and reprimanding you as you stare blankly at your hand.

You end up in the principal’s office, feeling too small in a nice plush chair that’s obviously meant for parent meetings rather than for degenerate students. The principal glares at you over her spectacles until the senior boy walks in, apparently having called his mother on the office phone. You’re directed out to do the same.

The receptionist glances suspiciously at you as you cradle the phone in your hand, hearing the dial tone even without lifting it to your ear. 

You can’t call Toriel or Asgore. They’d be so disappointed in you. Resorting to violence after swearing that you’ve reformed yourself. You can’t do that to them right now. You’re trying so hard to regain their trust. 

You dial the only other number you know by memory: the house phone. 

You’re praying for Papyrus to answer - you don’t like him, not really, as he’s loud and has a booming voice and your natural instinct is still to flinch at loud and booming voices, but he’s the most likely out of the bunch to help you. Of course, you don’t luck out. 

“‘lo?” Sans’ voice asks, sounding like it was caught on the end of a yawn. 

You mentally mutter a curse, clenching your free fist in the fabric of your sweater. You clear your throat, trying to disguise your voice as you mutter, “Is… is Papyrus there?”

There’s a pause. And then: “nah, he’s out. what can i help ya with, chara?” 

You can hear the ever-present grin in his voice, rolling your eyes to yourself because you know how delighted he must be that _you_ need _his_ help. He’s not a fan of you, and the feeling is mutual. He knows too much. People aren’t supposed to remember resets. That’s the whole _point_ of a reset. 

But right now, you’ve dug yourself into a hole and now you need a favor, so you grit your teeth and force out, “I need you to come pick me up from school.” 

You half expect him to hang up, but he probably knows that you’d tell Toriel if he did that and she probably wouldn’t be very happy with him. You can’t read his tone as he easily replies, “sure thing, kiddo. be there in a few.” 

_Click._

Well. That was easier than expected. 

You return to the principal’s office, where she’s starting to fill out some paperwork regarding your upcoming suspension. You’re easily agitated as she writes your name down as ‘Kara’ and then, after fixing that, misspells your last name as ‘Dreamer.’ 

The boy’s mom arrives before Sans, and you’re not surprised. She looks like a typical PTA mom with the soccer mom haircut and everything, and you roll your eyes as she shakes the principal’s hand and frets over her precious son, glaring daggers in your direction as you pick absently at your fingernails. 

When Sans gets there, the room grows tense. People still don’t know how to act around monsters. It’s a lot like how you act around humans nowadays. 

The principal introduces herself. You’re relieved when Sans doesn’t shake her hand - you haven’t forgotten his whoopee cushion trick - and instead just introduces himself as ‘Sans the skeleton.’ 

As he plops down into the chair next to you, making you jump a bit, the principal awkwardly asks, “So, Sans, you’re Chara’s…?” 

You freeze. 

“guardian,” he answers easily. You breathe a sigh of relief.

Luckily, the principal doesn’t question it - something that wouldn’t have flied if you were here with a human parent. You’re glad that the school systems still aren’t sure how to handle humans with monster parents (well, not that there are really any beyond you). They just assume that they have no proof of guardianship, unbeknownst that Toriel and Asgore had already legally adopted both you and Frisk with split custody a month ago. 

(There’d been a huge hassle with that, because nobody understood where you’d come from. Even when you finally cracked down and told them your “real” name, they didn’t believe you because all of their records showed that you’d gone missing a few hundred years ago. Frisk, on the other hand, was already labeled as an orphan, so Toriel adopting them had gone much more smoothly.)

You pretty much zone out as the principal describes your misdeeds to Sans, who stiffens at the mention of you punching the other kid. You know what he’s thinking: this is going to turn into a repeat of what you’d done Underground. No mercy. 

But if that’s what he believes, he doesn’t show it. He just nods along silently to everything she says, not reacting when she tells him that you’re suspended for the rest of today as well as tomorrow. 

When you’re on your way out of the school building, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your jeans, Sans says, “ _tibia_ honest, i was expected a lot worse.” 

You don’t say anything, nor do you react to the pun. The cold air hits you in the face as you walk outside and it’s grounding. You trail slowly behind Sans as he walks up to Papyrus’ sports car. 

(You’re silently relieved that he has the hood up. Sans might not feel the cold, but you sure as hell do.)

Once you’re in the car and Sans pulls out onto the road, you duck your head and quietly mutter, “Thanks.” 

There’s a short pause before Sans says, “no problem, kid. thought i’d _throw you a bone_ for once.” 

You roll your eyes. You stare out the window as you ask, “Are you going to tell my mom about this?” 

It slips out without you even realizing it: _mom_. Jeez, it’s been a few hundred years since you’ve made that mistake. You’ve maintained a firm stance on calling her by her name ever since regaining your physical form, but you guess subconsciously, she’s still your mom. 

Sans freezes as well, whatever joke he was about to make dying before it leaves his mouth. He chooses not to respond to your question and is silent for long enough that you’ve managed to space out again. It startles you when he finally speaks again, a casual, “y’know, kid, i don’t like you.” 

It’s blunt and there’s no hint of humor in it, even with the grin on the skeleton’s face. You shoot him a disdainful glance as you mutter, “I know.” 

Sans chuckles at this. “tell me, kid. how many times did i kill you?” 

Your hands clench tightly into fists. You grind your teeth. “I don’t know,” you force out. You’d lost count. 

“and how many times did you kill _me_? kill all of us?” 

So you were finally having this conversation, then.

“That was Frisk,” you grit, “not me.” 

It’s a lie, sort of. Not really. It was both of you. It was Frisk’s body but your intentions. 

Sans stops at a stop sign with a bit too much, sending you flying forward against your tightened seatbelt. You mutter a swear word under your breath as you clutch at your chest, tugging at the seatbelt. 

“how many times?” he repeats. “how many times did you make frisk reset to fix what you’d done?” 

Too many times, probably. Enough that the line between love and LOVE had started to blur, the point where you stopped and Frisk began. You know that the resets had taken their toll on Frisk; they’d affected you, too. You could only hold the same conversations so many times before they got to you.

You tug your legs up on the seat with you, hugging your knees to your chest as you glare out the windshield. You’re almost home. 

“Does it matter?” you counter. 

There’s a long pause before Sans laughs again. “heh. i guess not.” 

You tug your phone out of your pocket and flick through your apps just for something to do. 

“but chara…” 

You glance up. Sans’ left eye is flaring with blue flame. He grins out at the road.

“don’t do it again.”

\-----

“Look what the cat dragged in.” 

You don’t respond to the damn weed as you throw your bookbag onto your bed, collapsing face-first onto it. 

“Or the skeleton, rather.” 

You groan into the comforter. Toriel must have just washed it, because it smells too strongly of fabric softener for your taste. 

“What’s wrong, Chara?” Flowey asks in a sickly-sweet voice. “Tell your best friend about it.”

Your phone is the only thing within your reach, so you toss it in Flowey’s general direction without looking up. He yelps and there’s a loud noise as your phone knocks into the side of his pot before clattering to the desk. You didn’t use enough force to actually knock the flowerpot over, unfortunately.

“You’re _not_ my best friend,” you hiss as you sit up, flicking your bangs out of your eyes. “My best friend is dead, remember?” The words are bitter and they sting as they leave your mouth, some part of your subconscious snarling at you that you’re a traitor. 

Instead of readily agreeing like you expected, Flowey just looks shocked. 

“That’s right,” you mutter. You roll off the bed, walking over to the closet. You strip out of your clothes and throw on pajamas, ignoring Flowey’s protests. You’d changed in front of Asriel a thousand times, so this really shouldn’t be any different. 

“I don’t want to see that,” Flowey mutters angrily as you return to bed, slipping under the covers. You fumble around on the desk until you find your phone and hold it above you, pulling up your texts.

“Then just leave,” you mumble. 

TO: Frisk  
**Try and make sure Toriel is in a good mood today.**

You toss your phone onto the ground and pull the covers over your head. You know that sleeping off your problems is a sign of depression and not healthy and blah blah blah, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to care. 

As you start to drift off, you hear Flowey murmur, “Don’t you think I want to?”

\-----

Toriel doesn’t get angry with you. Instead, she’s disappointed, and you would have taken anger over that any day. 

It’s worse that she asked to speak to you alone, and Sans took the cue and loudly announced that he was taking Papyrus and Frisk out for ice cream. The house is too silent without them. 

You sit in the chair in the living room across from Toriel, and she gives you a worried look. When she doesn’t say anything, your anxiety gets the best of you, and you force out, “Are you going to kick me out?” 

Toriel blinks. Her brows furrow. “My child, why would you ever think that?” 

Your mouth goes dry. “Because I’m - I’m not like Frisk.” You drag your hands through your hair before one starts to play absently with the locket that Frisk had returned to you after your return to the surface. “I’m not the… the perfect child. I’m violent. I’m not a pacifist like you wanted me to be.” 

Toriel’s expression morphs into something more motherly. It makes your heart hurt, an aching of longing in your chest for you to just throw yourself into her arms already. 

“Chara,” she starts, “you are my child. You know that Asgore and I will always love you no matter what you do. I am disappointed that you felt that violence was the answer to your conflict, yes, but I believe that you have realized that this was not the correct thing to do.” 

It’s true. You recognize that maybe you shouldn’t have hit the kid, but you still don’t really feel bad about it. You don’t mention this to Toriel.

“That being said…” 

Your heart drops into your stomach. 

“I have contacted Asgore, and we have agreed that perhaps it would be best for you to be home-schooled.” 

You blink at the queen. That was not what you expected. 

“B-but… I…” _Why?_

“My child, would it make you more comfortable to have private lessons?” _... like you used to?_ hangs silently in the air. In truth, you do miss the lessons that you had with Asriel for the four years you lived with the royal family. 

“I…” Your voice is hoarse. “I don’t want to burden you.” 

Toriel gives you a kind smile. “Chara, it is no problem at all. I will teach my students during the day and give you lessons at night.” 

Guilt wrecks through you, though you have to admit you feel a lot better at the idea of not having to be constantly exposed to other humans. Shakily, you nod.

“Okay.”

\-----

You can’t sleep that night. It’s a mix of having taken a late nap, the odd side-effects of your medications, and being unable to get your brain to shut off. 

Sometimes the resets play through your head, like a loop but _not_ a loop because you really _did_ do these things over and over and over again. The amount of times that you’d fought Sans and had a bone pierce through your chest, Frisk’s chest. The amount of times that you’d fought _Asriel_ and had stayed silent in Frisk’s head apart from muttering a quiet _’you’re unable to escape’_ whenever they tried to struggle.

Frisk must hear you shifting restfully in your bed and trying to get comfortable, for after about an hour of this, you hear their bed creak followed by their soft footsteps padding across the room. This sound is all the warning you get to scoot over before Frisk is crawling in bed with you, slipping under the covers and curling up against your side. 

“Can’t sleep?” you murmur. 

You feel Frisk shake their head. “Not knowing that you’re awake still,” they say quietly. 

Your heart swells for Frisk. They’re not Asriel, but the two of them are so alike sometimes that it hurts. They both have compassion and mercy and everything you lack. 

“I’ll be okay, Frisk.” You stare at the ceiling in the darkness of the room. “Go to sleep.” 

They snuggle closer to your side, and a smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “I love you, Chara,” they whisper.

You freeze. You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. 

It’s okay. You’re sure they know, anyways.

\------

School goes by a lot better with Toriel as your teacher. You have no idea where she’s getting these lesson plans, but they seem on par with what you’d been learning at an actual high school, so you don’t complain. 

(It’s all a little too easy for you, still. You’d spent two hundred years as a SOUL, so you’d had a lot of time to learn things.)

You have a lot of free time during the days, and you spend most of it away from your room. These days it’s difficult for you to look at Flowey without thinking of Asriel. 

Undyne comes over and you split the time between piano lessons and sparring. Toriel was worried about the latter, but Asgore must have said something to her about how it was good for you to get your energy out through harmless fighting, for she stopped protesting. 

You find yourself unable to watch TV or movies or read fiction, partly because none of it interests you and partly because you know it’s something that Asriel would have loved. He was a giant nerd, and _Star Wars_ would have been right up his alley.

One day, when you’re half-asleep and Papyrus and Sans are out of the house and a _Harry Potter_ marathon is playing on TV, you wordlessly carry Flowey’s flowerpot out to the living room as he protests loudly. You set him on the table by the couch before retreating to the other side. You’re asleep by the end of the first movie. 

When Frisk finds you like that upon getting home from school, they smirk. You act as if you have no idea how Flowey got out to the living room.

\-----

Your fifteenth birthday sneaks up on you. You hadn’t planned on mentioning it to anybody, and you were surprised when Toriel still remembered and woke you up with breakfast in bed. 

It’s not your actual birthday, of course. You don’t even remember your actual date of birth. But the day you always celebrated was the day you fell into the Underground. The anniversary of your suicide attempt. 

You’d assured Toriel with a red face that you didn’t want anybody to make a big deal out of it, but she’d already made a cake and invited everybody over for that night. You really didn’t understand why; the monsters were Frisk’s friends, not yours. You didn’t have any friends beyond Frisk. 

But they all come over and seem to have a good time. You stay quiet throughout most of it, and halfway through the night, you become overwhelmed by the attention and sneak away to your bedroom. 

Flowey looks up when you come in. You’re honestly a bit surprised that Frisk hadn’t moved him out to the living room for the party, but you suspect that they hadn’t wanted to upset you. 

“No rude comments to make tonight?” you ask after a moment, raising an eyebrow at his silence. 

Flowey’s expression darkens. “You make yourself look worse than I ever could,” he mutters, but there’s not a lot of venom in it. 

You stare at him for a moment before changing into your pajamas. You’re on your way to bed when Flowey hesitantly asks, “Are you… sleeping in your binder?”

You glance at him, a bit surprised. There it is: a flutter of Asriel peeking through. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, starting to climb into bed. “‘s no big deal.” 

“Chara…” 

Hearing his tone softened like that stings too much. It’s too much of a reminder of what once was, what could have been. Because you don’t want to hear any more of it, you grumble angrily as you pull off your t-shirt, shucking your binder off and throwing it across the room before pulling your shirt back on and slipping under the covers. 

You flick off the lamp. “That all?” you ask dryly, annoyance clear. 

Flowey doesn’t reply. You check to make sure your phone is on silent before snuggling further under the blankets. 

You don’t fall asleep, but you’re silent enough that Flowey must have think that you did, for after a while, he quietly murmurs, “Happy birthday, Chara.”

\-----

Flowey’s changed. You’re not sure if you like it. 

You tell Frisk as much, and they’re confused. They think it’s a good thing that Flowey has stopped threatening to kill you all in your sleep, stopped describing to you in detail how he was going to gouge out your eyes. 

But it’s not. It’s too suspicious. He’s just trying to get your guard down. 

Frisk doesn’t agree. They give you a long talk about how people can change for the better. It’s straight out of Sans’ dialogue when giving judgement. 

You remain silent and don’t remind Frisk of how many times Flowey reset to kill them.

\-----

Cold water hits your face and starts to wash away the sweat you’d accumulated while sparring with Undyne. It’d been a good fight; you’d been starting to practice your own magic, and while it takes a lot out of your SOUL, you’re proud of yourself. It’s the first time you’ve been able to say that in a while.

After your shower, you throw on clean pajamas and head for your room with a towel draped around your shoulders, collecting the dripping water from your still-wet hair. Frisk passes you with a smile as they head towards the bathroom for their own shower. 

There’s a cup of tea on the desk in your room. It’s on Frisk’s side and it’s half-gone, but you’re sure they wouldn’t mind if you had the rest of it.

(You don’t know what kind it is, but it’s not golden-flower. Toriel had silently banned that from the house for a handful of reasons.)

You towel off your hair a bit before tossing the towel across the room and picking up the mug. You hold it in your hands for a moment, thinking about what you’d read about hot beverages being good for you because they stimulated human warmth, or something. You lift it to take a drink and-

“Chara!” 

Flowey’s voice startles you enough that you nearly drop the cup. The tea splashes up and likely would have spilled if it had been more full. You glance at the flower, raising an eyebrow. 

He looks embarrassed, glancing away, but he quietly mutters, “There’s… there’s cinnamon in that.” 

You stare. 

He remembers your allergy to cinnamon? He… must really have all of Asriel’s memories, then. Your dumb spice allergy had been pretty important as a part of the Dreemurr family, since Toriel was so used to making butterscotch-cinnamon pie. Once you’d joined the family, she always made a separate pie for you that was butterscotch only, and always labeled it with an embarrassing note that just read, _’Chara’s pie! :)’_

You set the cup down with a slightly shaky hand. Jeez. That was close. You’re deathly allergic to cinnamon, so if he hadn’t…

You don’t think about it. You just mutter a strained, “Thanks,” before letting yourself out of the room.

\-----

You enjoy Frisk’s thirteenth birthday a bit more than you’d enjoyed yours. Instead of staying in, you all go out to the second Grillby’s restaurant that had opened a few miles from your house. 

As usual, you stay silent for most of the meal, but you remain pressed close to Frisk’s side throughout the whole thing. You only eat half of your fries and a few bites of your burger and take the rest home. 

You silently set the food within Flowey’s reach. He stares at you. You pretend not to notice. 

\-----

Time continues to pass, and things are… okay, somehow. Not good, but you no longer feel like the earth is ready to swallow you up at any moment. 

You refuse to see psychologists, but you end up breaking down and seeing a physician about your physical problems. She does a thorough examination of you and tells you bluntly that she’s surprised you’re alive. 

She doesn’t know the half of it. 

You end up getting prescribed another few painkillers that you still don’t know how to pronounce. It numbs the pain a little bit. You take them because you know it’s what Asriel would have wanted you to do, and that’s what gets you through the days most of the time. 

The one year anniversary of the monsters’ freedom comes and goes. It’s hard to believe that it’s been a year since you got a physical form again. 

It’s been a year since you’ve seen Asriel. 

Some days you look at Flowey and wonder if that’s true. 

\-----

You lied. Things aren’t always okay.

Frisk had wanted to go rollerblading one night and you’d offered to take them. Toriel had seemed hesitant, but she eventually just smiled and allowed you two to go alone. 

You’d never gone skating before, so you were embarrassingly bad as you stumbled over your own feet and clung to Frisk for balance. They just laughed and smiled and had a great time, and for a few hours, you managed to forget about your inner angst.

It’s when you’re both sitting down and unlacing your skates that things start to go downhill. 

A group of teenage boys sidles up to you, smelling like cigarettes and sweat. Your guard goes up immediately, and you’re ready to fight them before the leader has even opened his mouth. 

“Hey, you’re that ambassador kid, right?” he asks with a grin, pointing at Frisk. You feel them stiffen, sensing the threat. Slowly, they nod. The group laughs. “Thought so,” he continues. “You look like a dirty monster lover.” 

You’re on your feet quickly enough that the boy flinches. He’s a whole head taller than you, but you know how you look. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you ask, lip curling into a snarl. 

The boy eyes you up and down before laughing again. “It means you both look like the kinds of freaks that only monsters could love.” 

Frisk has grabbed your arm before you can send your fist flying. You struggle to get away from them, snarling an, _”I’ll fucking kill you,”_ at the boys that must sound pretty genuine, for they exchange glances before running off with a final comment about how freaky you are.

When you’ve managed to get your breathing in check, you glare at Frisk. “I had it _handled_ ,” you growl. 

Frisk doesn’t flinch away. They just look at you sadly and murmur, “Fighting is bad, Chara.”

You’re still shaking by the time Papyrus comes to pick you up.

\-----

You shower when you get home because you can’t ground yourself in any other ways. The water is cold and relieving and you sit on the floor of the tub, arms wrapped around yourself and face pressed against your knees. 

Humans are still _exactly the same._ They’re still cruel for their own enjoyment. For comedic relief. It’s a harsh reminder of why you climbed the mountain in the first place. 

_I should have died when I had the chance._

When you return to the bedroom, hands still clenched tightly into fists, you quietly tell Frisk that you want to be alone. They nod and wordlessly leave the room, forgetting their tea on the desk. 

You forget for a moment what’s in the tea. You don’t even think about it. Your mouth is dry from your silent sobs in the shower, and you quickly pick up the tea and down a mouthful of it even as Flowey shouts your name in warning. 

You choke immediately, and you just have the time to drop the mug onto the desk before your knees are giving out and you’re clawing at your throat. You can feel your heart speed up and the phrase _’anaphylactic shock’_ flashes vaguely through your head. 

Flowey doesn’t yell Frisk or Toriel’s name. Instead, he screams, _”MOM!”_ and even as your vision goes dark, the sounds of heavy footsteps and worried cries morphing together as strong arms pick you up, you can’t help but think of Asriel.

\-----

You wake up in the hospital feeling like utter shit. 

It feels too much like your buttercup poisoning for comfort, though this is much smaller. Your chest aches and your throat feels like it’s as dry as the Sahara, but you’re released from the hospital the same night. 

Toriel is the first one to embrace you upon crawling out of your hospital bed, but Asgore is there too and quickly joins in. He still smells like tea leaves and grass and you take comfort in the fact that this hasn’t changed. 

Once you’ve made it out of the hugs, Papyrus exclaims, “Human! I am so very glad that you are alright!” as if the two of you are friends. As if you’ve ever done or said anything nice to him. You don’t know why, but it warms your heart, and you make a silent promise to Asriel that you’re going to start trying harder. 

Even Sans gives you a look that’s not totally hateful as he seconds Papyrus’ words.

Frisk is an emotional mess, crying about how they didn’t even know you were allergic to cinnamon and how they were going to throw out the entire rest of the box of tea as soon as you’re home. You roll your eyes and tell them that they don’t have to do that, but sure enough, the first thing they do at the house is run to the kitchen and toss the box in the trash.

It’s late, long after midnight, but no one feels much like going to sleep. Asgore has accompanied all of you back to Toriel’s house and he wordlessly goes to the kitchen to start making six cups of hot chocolate.

You excuse yourself for a moment. Everybody tenses up, as if you can’t be left alone, but you assure them that you just want to change out of your clothes. You’re relieved when Frisk doesn’t follow you to the bedroom. 

The door shuts loudly behind you, cutting through the silence. You keep your back pressed to it and don’t say anything as you stare at the flower on the desk. 

“What?” Flowey asks agitatedly after a moment, shifting uncomfortably. “Stop staring at me!” 

“Why’d you do it?” you ask. Your voice is shot from all of your coughing, and you cringe at how weak you must sound. 

“I don’t-” Flowey makes an affronted noise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Idiot.” 

“You called her ‘mom,’” you say. You lean back against the door, hooking your thumbs in your pockets. “Asriel is still in there somewhere.”

“Don’t - stop saying that!” Flowey exclaims. His face contorts into something more malicious. “Your friend is dead! There’s only me! I’m so much stronger than he ever was, and I’ll be the god of a new world once- once- hey, what are you doing?” 

You’ve moved to pull out a dresser drawer, digging through it until you find a small velvet jewelry box. You pop it open as you walk over to Flowey, pulling out Asriel’s locket - identical to the one around your neck - and dangling it in front of him. 

(Asgore had given it to you a few weeks ago on one of yours and Frisk’s weekend visits to his house. He’d told you that he thought you needed it more than he did.)

Flowey looks surprised for just a moment before he glares at the locket. “Get that thing away from me.” 

You don’t. Instead, you set it down on the desk, within Flowey’s reach if he decided he wanted it. 

“Let me know when you change your mind,” you call as you leave the room, dropping the jewelry box back into the drawer. 

Flowey curses loudly behind you and you just smile to yourself. 

It’s ridiculous to have hope, you know. It’s ridiculous to think that you could ever get Asriel back. You were the one who sealed his fate, who fucked him over. 

But you think of Flowey’s change of heart in all of the timelines where you’d had Frisk kill him. How his voice had morphed into something more scared. Something more like Asriel’s.

It’s impossible to not have hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so I have this huge headcanon that Chara is allergic to cinnamon (or SOMETHING, at least) because of the beginning of the game where Toriel asks if you have any allergies. I imagine that monsters don't have allergies, so I feel like Toriel would have had to have experience with human allergies since she double-checks to make sure you don't have any.


End file.
